


Toothless

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Series: The Hell-Raising Chronicles of the Trenchcoat Brigade [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly gets his wisdom teeth out.  Bahorel almost loses his, for entirely different reasons. Everything else is clearly to be blamed on the Vicodin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toothless

Bahorel has his arm around Feuilly’s shoulder when they walk in. To a certain extent, it’s meant as a comfort.

But mostly it’s to keep him from running.

Feuilly has now spent twelve consecutive hours without a smoke (he’d sucked down his last cigarette desperately, like a man facing the firing squad in the morning) and without coffee (he drank his last cup the same way). He is facing the certain knowledge that there will be no smoking and no coffee for _days_ to come, and he’s on the verge of bolting. Bahorel can feel the muscles shift and bunch under his hand. So he doesn’t let go until they’re fully inside and Feuilly is checking in and the receptionist is giving them this _look_ , and Bahorel has no idea what the hell _that’s_ about, so whatever.

Feuilly confirms that yes, the asshole in the vest over there is his ride home, and at the word “roommate”, Miss Receptionist smiles and nods significantly.  Then a pretty nurse in blue comes and leads Feuilly away with a smile and a friendly “I’m just going have you lie down for me.” Bahorel mimes applause.

Miss Receptionist looks abruptly confused.

Bahorel comes back an hour later, with Grantaire trailing behind him, video-camera in hand “to commemorate the moment. Also, I want full record of his drug-addled rambling.”

Feuilly, mouth trailing gauze, is still surprisingly (“boringly”, according to Grantaire) lucid on the way back to their apartment. The most entertaining thing to come out of his mouth is “Grankur, if you don’ kut that ‘ucking cangra away, I’ll ‘ake ‘orel ‘ake your ‘inguz” It’s not quite as funny when Grantaire manages to translate it back into English (Grantaire if you don’t put that fucking camera away, I’ll make Bahorel break your fingers), although Bahorel still thinks it’s hilarious. The camera disappears; Grantaire isn’t stupid.

And he’s _fine_. Feuilly is _fine_ , he has his vicodin, he has detailed instructions from Joly and Comebferre, he has ice-cream from Jehan, and soup that Cosette brought over.  And thank God for that, because Bahorel’s coffee (which he isn’t going to think about, let alone the fact that he’s not allowed to have any, lest he break down weeping openly), is unnaturally good, and is actually what Lucifer drinks (Hell has better coffee. Feuilly doesn’t remember when they decided that, but they did) but he can’t cook for shit. The point is, he’s _fine_ and he doesn’t need to be waited on. Even if he is going to die if he doesn’t get a cigarette soon. Even if he _swears_ that he can still smell faint traces of smoke on Bahorel, and he just wants to bury his face in the crook of Bahorel’s neck and breathe in. That’s just the drugs. He’s fine.

He’s so fine that he not only wakes up before Bahorel, and gets his own breakfast, because Bahorel can’t cook for shit, Feuilly also kicks him out of the apartment entirely. He’s fine, and he doesn’t need to be waited on, and he just….doesn’t. The drugs make it hard to think straight. So Bahorel is banished to Grantaire’s, and Feuilly curls into the corner of the couch with his painkillers and his Netflix queue. At some point, he’s pretty sure that he falls asleep, since the next thing Feuilly is aware of is the door banging open and the thought _I’m not anywhere close to being stoned enough to deal with this right now_. He’s even entirely sure what “this” is, except that Bahorel is leaning heavily on Grantaire and cupping something red-and-white against his jaw. A bead of sweat slips down between his shoulders as he stands hunched over the sink. It’s oddly fascinating. Feuilly hears him spit and groans into the couch.

“What the hell did you do?”

Grantaire answers first. “It’s not so much _what_ he did, as _who_ he was trying to do. As it turned out, she was someone else’s girlfriend. Although I’m not sure she knew that she was dating. Honestly, she seemed just as surprised as anyone. There may,” he adds, picking his way around the couch “have been chairs involved.”

“Oh, my g– you did not.” Bahorel turns from the sink, water glistening in his beard and beams. Even from across the room, Feuilly can tell that there’s blood in his mouth.

“It’s fine, we checked! A couple teeth loose, that’s all. He’s fine.”  Grantaire cuts in. Feuilly stares at the bruise forming above his eyebrow. He sighs.

“Go home, R.”

Grantaire hold up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, fine. Am I taking him with me, seeing as you’re a strong, independent ginger who don’t need no man, or is he staying?”

Nope. Not even _close_ to stoned enough to deal with this. The pill bottle is digging into his hip, and Feuilly fishes it out from under his thigh, holding it loosely in one hand, dangling over the edge of the couch. “I’m not awake enough for this. He can stay.” Feuilly tugs a cushion over his head, as if things will be less absurd if he can’t see them. A moment later, he hears the door click shut, and a ghost of heat and callouses over his fingers as Bahorel takes the bottle from his hand. The couch dips. There’s sudden warmth at his feet.

“You know,” Feuilly says drily, still talking into his cushion. “This isn’t actually the _Iliad_. You don’t get to go to war over blondes.” They both pause to acknowledge _unless you’re Grantaire._ Then Bahorel says “Fuck you, she was a redhead. I like redheads.”

And Feuilly replies “I like brown-eyed assholes with bloody knuckles who wear stupid hats and fight too much. Nobody has ever thrown a chair at me because of it.” It’s very quiet.

Shit. Shit, he said that out loud, didn’t he? His cheeks are burning and the air is shockingly cold across his face as Bahorel yanks the cushion away. He finds himself staring up into brown eyes and Bahorel repeats, with perfect seriousness, “I like redheads.”


End file.
